


Swordplay

by Mud_Pie



Category: Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, Slash, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:05:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8108725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mud_Pie/pseuds/Mud_Pie
Summary: Grom wishes to teach Arthas an important lesson; but the prince is not cooperating.





	

 

_“Goddamn you,”_ Arthas growled, struggling beneath the oppressive weight of the Warsong chieftain, Grommash Hellscream. “Kill me and be done with it!”

“Kill, kill, kill. That is all you humans understand,” his captor whispered roughly in his ear, and for a moment, Arthas hesitated, startled by the unexpected words. “I do not wish to _kill_ you, silly, stubborn person,” Grom added, a bit breathless from wrangling the angry, cursing human; partly, this was due to anticipation.

The very Crown Prince of Lordaeron, himself, this young man was quite the prize. Still, he had not been an easy one to capture and had proven even more difficult to hold. Three times, he had already escaped; Grom was determined there would not be a fourth. “I wish, instead to teach you a very valuable lesson,” he added, “but first, I must make you mine.” Grom smiled, “This, of course, means I am going to fuck you now.”

Arthas tensed with offended denial at those words, struggling anew and even more aggressively. So much so, in fact, that Grom began to debate with himself upon the merits of complete honesty.

The orc held the prince closer, stroking his smooth, fair skin. Murmuring approvingly, he pressed his lips to the tempting flesh, grazing it slightly with his sharp tusks, just enough to bring a few beads of blood from the young man’s shoulder.

Arthas's jaw tightening; he absolutely refused to express pain, or in any way appease the appetites of this monster that was upon him. All attempts to repel or elude his pursuer had failed him. No matter what he did, the orc was brutally tenacious, cunning and relentless.

During their long, tiring struggle, the orc’s devious tactics and strong, taloned hands had divested the prince of his weapons first—followed, a piece at a time, by his armor. Soon enough, his doublet was shredded, as well as the linen shirt beneath; it was hanging off him in ribbons, damp with his and his attacker’s sweat. His skin, likewise, had been torn and Arthas could smell his own blood, mingled with the heavy musk of the orc.

Similarly, the chieftain too had his share of bruises. The young human had a fierce punch. Grom had a bloodied nose and a split lip to show for their confrontation. All in all, however, he had fared considerably better than the prince, with his bruised ribs and multiple lacerations; but even the orc's affection for fighting was waning, now that his intentions for his young opponent had changed. His massive body leaned ominously closer to the prince’s, one hand moving to press Arthas’s lower belly, stroking his skin through what was left of his shirt. He was now much more interested in a different sort of body contact.

The orc found he liked the feel of the young human very much. His lean body was hard with muscle, but the skin was smooth and had upon it a silky down of the same bright hue as the long, fair hair upon his head—it, now sweaty and tangled from his struggles. Grom plucked a crumpled leaf from the tousled, golden mane; the prince had thus acquired quite a number of diverse items—twigs, grassy blades, a beetle—in their tumbling about upon the ground.

Gently, the chieftain smoothed Arthas’s hair, brushing it back from his tense, grimy face; he patted the angry brow indulgently. This young man was fiercer than Grom had expected, especially from a human prince. He did not submit, nor did he plead. This was worthy. It made his subjugation even more exciting. When they were strong and unyielding, it was _good_.

He stroked the human man’s ribs, moving his hand to his chest; it too, was strong and well-shaped. This was a warrior’s fine, hard body, not that of a pampered aristocrat. Here too, upon his chest, to the chieftain's further delight, was a sparse sprinkling of that same soft, pale hair.

Grom nuzzled the back of the prince’s neck, breathing deeply of his intriguing scent, before closing his teeth upon the young man’s nape. Arthas grunted, writhing. Human skin was thin, almost delicate—certainly compared to an orc's; it tore easily, and now the warm, rich, red blood was welling out against Grom's tongue. He lapped it up appreciatively.

To the disconcerted prince, the pleased sounds of his attacker, and the feel of a broad, soft tongue upon his skin were worse, by far, than even the creep of blood from his several minor injuries.

_Did the monster intend to bite off his head?_

That was a horrific thought, but in another moment, when the orc’s hands moved to his belt, an even more appalling certainty suffused him. Those earlier words had been more than mere taunts, he realized.

Arthas completely committed himself to getting from under the brute at all cost—whether at the risk of skin, blood, or life itself. Anything was preferable to what this creature clearly intended to do to him now.

One hand lightly stroked his hip, grasping his upper thigh, and then it moved swiftly to close on his crotch, applying a light, teasing pressure. There was a soft chuckle of amusement in his ear, and Arthas tossed his head angrily, butting the orc in his already smarting nose, getting a very satisfying grunt of surprise and pain from his oppressor. Unfortunately, the hand gripping him closed reflexively, squeezing his seized manhood most painfully.

_“Gods…”_ the prince croaked, quite immobilized for the moment. Once again, the teeth closed on Arthas’s nape; and this was a no-nonsense bite, one that made him wonder in dread if his spine was about to be severed. Should that occur, the monster could do whatever he pleased to him, and at his leisure. It was beginning to appear that such might be his fate, despite any effort he might make to prevent it.

“Be still,” the orc murmured, “you have fought well, but it is enough. I am tired of it now. Behave.”

“And you may go straight to _Hell,_ ” the prince growled, offended by the rather condescending tone; but the hand tightened further and whatever else he might have added was lost in the dizzying wave of nausea that washed over him as the huge hand twisted sensitive flesh with deliberate relish.

“Perhaps you would care to join me?” Grom offered, amused.

When the young man drooped beneath him, Grom peered over his shoulder at his face, thinking it was time for him to settle down and accept his lot.

_“Light help me,”_ he heard the prince whisper.

The youth’s handsome face was haggard; he was obviously hurting. Arthas glared stubbornly at the ground, grinding his teeth, furious and refusing, when Grom reached out to gently tap his cheek with a curious finger. The chieftain chuckled, hooking that same finger under the proud chin; it and the fine, angular jawline were both lightly shadowed with golden stubble. Grom rubbed this bristle with his thumb, for a captivated moment, and then he tilted the resistant head, drawing the prince’s face around that he might ponder it. The sea-green eyes were narrowed, defiant, aching, but they were more enraged than pained, he saw, satisfied.

“You are a fierce one, aren’t you, little human prince?”

“Fight me like a man, instead of a fucking beast,” Arthas hissed, “and I will _show_ you fierce, you bastard!”

“Ah, but I _am_ a fucking beast, and as _that_ is what I presently have in mind for _you,_ I am now very curious to see if you have this nice yellow hair all over. I rather imagine you _do._ ” He loosened his painful grip and the prince gasped a halting breath, his eyes glowering and glittering in the slanting sunlight. “You are _very_ pretty,” Grom said, smiling at Arthas's indignant scowl, “I think the time has come to find out if you feel as good inside as you do out.” The orc laughed, moving his hand to stroke the prince’s muscular buttocks, pressing his fingers firmly between the taut lobes, for a more thorough investigation, receiving a startled grunt and a wild look for his efforts. “Worry not,” Grom murmured, “I will not kill you.”

“I would much prefer it if you _did,_ ” said the prince, baring his teeth.

“Oh now, I doubt you wish to _die._ Such a silly reply, and besides, I do not enjoy fucking the dead. That does not please me.” The prince groaned with revulsion, as if imagining that might possibly be the voice of experience. Grom decided to allow him to think so; it was amusing. “Your struggling, sweaty body now, that _does_ please me. It stirs me a great deal, in fact. As you have probably noticed. Now, let us see…”

Arthas was well aware of what the orc alluded to; he could easily feel the huge, hot length of the creature’s erection urgently pressing into his lower back. He twisted furiously about, and in his desperation, almost writhed free again. Grom postponed the moment of revelation briefly, realizing that, yes, this one would require complete subduing.

He did not mind. That too, he enjoyed. Moving closer still onto the struggling man, and using his greater size and advantage, he forced the prince down onto his belly beneath him, and when he raised his golden head in protest, Grom simply slipped his massive forearm around Arthas’s neck, pressing the corded muscles firmly against the prince’s throat. The big orc sighed, smiling fondly at the back of his prize’s head as he growled and thrashed about, striving mightily to accomplish his intended escape. He did not succeed in his endeavor.

Slowly, Grom tightened his arm, pulling back slightly, so that the young man’s back arched painfully, applying even more pressure. He leaned close, resting his cheek against the prince’s; it was hot and damp with sweat. Grom found it very sedative, listening to the human’s furious grunts of frustration. He smiled placidly over the gasping struggle to breathe, as he gently squeezed the young human into unconsciousness.

“Do not worry,” he whispered, turning his head to peer at the prince, as he felt the young man’s strength beginning to fail, “All will be well.” The bright green eyes rolled around to glower at him. Grom smiled, nestling close again, as he tightened his arm. Again, they were cheek to cheek; there was a soft, choked croak of protest from Arthas, over the intimacy of this embrace.

Grom chuckled, so _irritable_ , he was, this prince. “When you wake again,” he promised with cheerful positivity, “you will find us _much_ better acquainted, I assure you.”

_“Why?”_ the prince gasped.

Grom tilted his head curiously. “Why? Why, what? Why am I going to insist on fucking you? That should be obvious, human being, you please me, and you taste good. I think you will _feel_ good too,” he nuzzled the prince’s ear, “... _inside_ …” Arthas grunted in horror at the thought. “Or do you only wonder why I would rudely start without you?” The prince groaned in dismay; he was overwhelmed, and knowing only a few more moments of consciousness remained to him, he clung to them feverishly.

“Perhaps if you asked _politely_ , I would reconsider,” Grom teased, smoothing the long, pale hair appreciatively with his free hand. The prince growled and glowered. “Or, perhaps not. Do not be so annoyed, it will be a new and different experience for you, yes? Such matters should be cherished as the gifts they are.” Arthas stared disbelievingly at the dirt. “Perhaps it is something you can share with your paladin friends.” The prince’s eyes widened and the young man looked suddenly stricken. “From the way I have seen Lord Uther look at you, I think he would very much enjoy continuing your education, in this manner.”

_“Bastard!”_ Arthas growled. “Uther is a _righteous_ man!”

“I did not say he _wasn’t,_ little prince,” Grom reminded him benignly.

Arthas looked confused. Not to Grom's surprise. _Humans_. How they loved to over-complicate matters. The prince’s stunned look persisted inexplicably.

Soon enough, however, the pale eyes were rolling slightly, as the prince succumbed to the powerful chieftain’s hold. Arthas grunted softly, flinching again.

_Still doggedly trying to fight,_ Grom knew, and he quite willingly admired the pointless attempt.

Shortly, the long, strong body grew perfectly still in his embrace, and then sagged limply. Grom smiled, loosening his hold, peering at the prince carefully, making sure he was still breathing. And he was.

He lowered the motionless man to the ground, patting his back gently, stroking its smooth, fine contours approvingly. Yes, very nice. He moved back a bit, turning the prince slightly, onto his side. His fair head rolled a little, boneless. Almost as if his neck might be broken. Grom was quite certain it was not.

He chuckled, unbuckling the prince’s belt; opening his breeches, he easily shucked the limp body of its leathers, depriving him of any and all protection. Grom paused for a moment, to fully appreciate the fine muscularity of the young human’s buttocks. Very nice, indeed, very healthy. He stroked the smooth skin, palpating the firm, hot flesh.

He tilted his head, studying the prince’s squeezed and rather unhappy manhood. It was a bit pink, but no worse for wear. It was likely always pink, he judged, considering the fair tone of the lightly tanned skin. It was quite the stout organ, he noted. _For a human._ Grom smiled; very soon, he would give it much more attention, when Arthas was wide awake and fully able to appreciate his efforts. The chieftain amused himself by briefly teasing the fluff of pale hair that decorated the prince’s pubic place. Ah yes, the young man was, as he had guessed, golden all over.

With a contented sigh, he turned the prince back onto his belly, spreading his long, muscular thighs, positioning himself between them. These too, he patted and stroked. More of that pretty, golden hair. Grom smiled, chuckling, as he pressed his knees against the opened thighs, to keep them just so, and then he set about removing his loincloth, opening up its pouch, shedding it too. He thoughtfully pondered his engorged member, caressing it a bit, to delight and pacify it. It was understandably eager, clearly anxious to begin, but Grom was of the mood to savor the moment.

Carefully, so as not to rouse him prematurely, he began removing the tattered remnants of Arthas’s shredded shirt, to better see and appreciate him in his golden entirety, without any impediment.

He stroked the prince, studying him, deciding he would wait until he was almost conscious to begin; that way, he would miss very little of their exchange. He did not want him to miss any part of it, actually; but Grom knew Arthas would only begin struggling pointlessly once he woke, and would need subduing yet again.

He sensibly decided that if he were already deeply couched within that fine flesh, when the young man regained consciousness, then perhaps he would not feel quite so frisky and would settle down for the duration of the experience. Grom was confident it would be most enlightening for the prince, and an extremely satisfying entertainment for him, as well.

He leaned closer then, spreading the smooth, firm buttocks, spying the pink, puckered and almost certainly virginal opening. He chuckled, and yes, there was a wee fringe of soft, golden hair between it and his tender manlies. He teased the pouting orifice gently with a taloned finger; yes, this one was very tight. The pretty, plump cock had no doubt been very busy amusing the ladies, the orc surmised, as he was a strapping lad, well-endowed and fetching, but Grom suspected the prince was likely still an innocent, as to _these_ imminent matters. Well, that was soon to change. He would teach the young human well, all about this valuable lesson.

Grom's attentive manhood twitched with proud enthusiasm, ever ready to do his bidding, as he positioned himself, leaning close into the prince, nudging gently for admittance. No need to hurt him too much.

Grom was debating on whether or not to allow the young human a brief time to accept his incursion, as well as a moment to come to grips with the idea of being so thoroughly and handily commandeered, when Arthas began to stir, and groggily raised his head.

“Oh, dear,” Grom murmured. _'So much for that.'_ He quickly seized the prince’s hips in a firm grip, shoving his own forward in a fierce thrust.

_Yes!_ The exquisite sensation of sudden entry into that tight, pulsing heat had Grom bellowing with pleasure. Quite completely drowning out Arthas’s startled, breathless yowl of pain. The prince gasped—thrashing, panting, cursing; his fingers tore at the ground, furious but futile. That shocked outcry of pain dwindled to a hurting groan that the chieftain rather regretted. Not terribly, however, as he felt much too good for any lingering pangs of remorse.

Grom leaned closer over the prince, pressing him down, constricting his rather frenzied movements. Reaching up, he grasped Arthas’s arms, pulling them back and gently restraining his wrists.

He was going to hurt himself.

Grom slowed his thrusts, not that it likely mattered much to the prince, as he doubtless felt himself thoroughly reamed; in which, of course, he was correct. Grom had a very large member and the prince, a very tight hole. Good for Grom, yes, but not so much for Arthas.

The prince was writhing, grunting, drooling slightly as he struggled fiercely to free his hands, obviously thinking he might still somehow get out from under his oppressor.

Well, _no_ … he was not going anywhere, Grom decided, not until he was finished with him. And that would not be for quite some time yet. He would just have to make him understand that he was taken; he had lost the fight, and now, he had to pay. He began thrusting deeply, attending to that potent revelation; the young human needed to realize that the more he struggled, the longer enlightenment would take.

“Settle down, now,” Grom murmured, pressing his face against the prince’s hair. A furious, growling grunt was the only reply. Grom sighed. He did not expect conversation. He stroked his prize soothingly with his free hand. “You really should just be at ease, you know. It will not hurt so much if you only relent.”

The prince turned his head and tried to bite him. Grom had no choice but to press his face into the dirt for that.

“Oh, stop it, you silly thing,” Grom grumbled, thrusting merrily and truly, rocking the young, pinioned body with vigor.

Arthas hissed and thrashed.

“You are only hurting yourself,” Grom informed him, “I can ride you all day and it will not hurt me one bit, but _you_ will not walk straight for a week. And besides, how am I to enjoy you, if you insist upon being so selfish?”

Arthas froze at those words, slowly turning his head to stare back over his shoulder at the looming orc. “That got your attention, I see. So perhaps you will consider it?” Grom smiled, giving the stunned, suddenly motionless body a number of good, deep, satisfying thrusts, before the prince collected himself enough from his astonishment to begin struggling again.

Grom sighed. _'Time to change tactics,'_ he decided. Pulling the leather thong from one of his braids, he proceeded to cheerfully, effectively, tie his captive’s hands behind his back. Arthas still squirmed and writhed. Clearly, he did not quite grasp the situation.

Grom concluded from this that a bit of illumination was in order. “I am _inside_ you,” he instructed mildly, “As I think you must _surely_ know. I am also a good deal bigger than you, and now your hands are bound and quite useless.” He looked at the prince to discern any presence of common sense. It refused to make an appearance. “Now, I am not finished with you,” he added, “and I am not going anywhere until I am. Neither are _you_ , silly person.”

Arthas looked at him grimly, squinting; and Grom wondered if perhaps his feelings might be hurt. The chieftain actually felt a bit sorry for the young man. Yes, Grom knew from his own experience, sometimes this was a difficult lesson.

To alleviate this uncomfortable prickle of conscience, as well as giving the young human something to distract him from his plight, the chieftain slipped both hands under Arthas’s belly, hoisting him slightly off the ground. It proved to be the perfect diversion. There was a gasped, half-stifled yelp from the prince, as Grom impaled him even more precisely. He began to thrust again, now at a slightly different angle, gently pressing the overwhelmed young man prone to the ground, once more.

He knew immediately when the prince felt it. That special, special spot. Grom aimed unerringly for it again. There was another hoarse gasp from the prince, of a somewhat different timbre.

“Oh, gods… _no_ …” Grom heard him whisper urgently into the dirt. The orc smiled, amused, taking another accurate stab at rapture. The prince groaned, shivering all over. He was panting, wild-eyed, his quick breaths stirring little clouds of gritty dust.

“It is all right if you enjoy yourself, you know,” Grom murmured in his ear. The prince grunted, furiously resisting such an unspeakable thought; and pressing his forehead to the ground, he tried diligently to inch away. Rather like a worm. It was quite clear that he was a bit offended. Grom patiently drew him back, smacking his buttocks lightly, in teasing reprimand. He peered closely at the prince, finding his eyes were closed; the curly, yellow lashes were spiky with sweat or tears of pain—most probably both.

“Now that you are somewhat more adjusted to my impositions upon you,” the chieftain said, “is it not pleasing?” Only grim silence greeted this inquiry, as Arthas tensed and refused to answer. “Be honest now, attend to your body; it will enlighten you,” Grom suggested.

“The body is not important,” the prince finally said, as if by rote; his voice was a soft, pained whisper. “Only the soul matters.”

“Flesh is the house the soul _chooses,_ ” Grom said. “How can it be unimportant?”

Arthas thrashed stubbornly about and glared at him, “What do _you_ know of _souls?_ _Orc_ …”

Grom smiled, “More than _you,_ ” he replied.

The prince looked startled, slightly insulted, and then he frowned, worriedly contemplative.

Grom considered him, pleased to provoke a flicker of thought, resuming his excellent, pumping rhythm. “You _should_ feel honored,” he added, in a moment, to which words Arthas flinched, his eyes flaring wide. “If you were weak and unworthy,” the orc explained, pausing a moment to fully and necessarily impress his position, causing the prince to groan and quickly lose his angry look.

“As I was saying, if you were not worthy of it, I would not _wish_ to fuck you.” Grom looked for understanding, seeing none, and so he continued. “You are very brave and skilled, young human,” he extolled, “but you are also a bit recklessly arrogant, and because of this, you have not yet learned to be gracious about it, when you are beaten.”

Arthas nuzzled the dirt, grimacing; he said nothing, but Grom knew he understood perfectly well why he was in such a predicament.

“Come now,” the chieftain urged, “tell me you grasp my meaning.”

“That is why you drank my blood,” the prince muttered breathlessly, in an accusing tone; he appeared to be speaking to the sweat-sprinkled dirt. “You think to steal my strength. Will you _eat_ me, too?”

Grom chuckled, delighted to be having this nice discussion with the prince, “I have all the strength I need, little human,” he replied, amused. “You may keep yours, _and_ your pretty flesh. Except, of course, for what I am presently using.”

Arthas thrashed about again, rather resentful of those words, but Grom calmly, firmly, ground him into submission with a few deep, groan-inspiring thrusts to instruct him.

“I drank your blood,” Grom leaned close to whisper in the prince’s ear, reveling in his hurting gasps, “because I like the taste and the pretty color of it.”

The human frowned, but Grom could tell that he believed, and for that insight, he shifted so that his great rod might once again caress that most sensitive of nubs, within. Arthas quivered, panting; his eyes rolled. A bit more careful attention here, and soon enough, the proud, young prince was devoid of all belligerence.

_'Very good,'_ Grom thought, lifting the now less-resistant body slightly that he might slide his hand down Arthas’s lean belly, into the silky patch of hair, feeling his burgeoning arousal, smelling it in the fresh sweat that was now springing up all over the prince’s quickening body. Other things were springing up as well, Grom was delighted to find.

“There now,” the chieftain crooned, stroking him, gripping the hot, swollen flesh firmly, sliding it gently through his fist; there was a choked sigh, a strange, panted moan. Smiling, Grom increased the pressure, thrusting easily now; the limber body was beginning to relax of its own accord, and even though Arthas still struggled, it was half-hearted at best.

_'Well,'_ Grom thought kindly, _'I know he thinks he has to.'_

He lifted the young man up, and quite gently now, as he was growing much more cooperative, settled him even more firmly upon his pumping shaft. Another breathless groan escaped the prince. Both, now on their knees, the orc held his mellowing captive close with an arm around his waist. The other hand, however, gradually, expertly, attended to the prince’s still-unwilling tumescence, and shortly he had the poor, confused human as rigid as his confiscated sword.

It was then that Arthas finally relented, becoming quite resigned to his dilemma, panting and rather wantonly squirming with Grom's deep thrusts, and finally leaning his fair head back against the orc’s massive chest, in a compliant, even if rather exhausted gesture. The chieftain stroked his prize’s lean, supple throat, smiling as Arthas tilted back his head, in response to the caress.

_'Oh, yes, this is very good,'_ Grom thought, peering at the prince’s face; it was as transfixed as the rest of him. His eyes were half-closed, glittering and dazed, beneath their fluttering lashes, soft lips parted, pink and damp.

Grom no longer had to hold him, and so, he stroked the fine, pale hair, nuzzling underneath it to lick the still-oozing blood off Arthas’s nape where he had bitten him earlier.

It was only when he felt the limber body beginning to tauten and quiver that he leaned Arthas forward again, untying his hands. As he expected, at this point in the lesson, the prince accommodated him by bracing himself upon his outstretched palms. He grunted, his back arching slightly against Grom's chest, the thick length of his now very energetically obliging member jerked in Grom's knowledgeable grip, and the young man got his intense, shuddering release. A substantial amount of manly juice shot into the sand.

Arthas sighed raggedly, lowering his head, trembling with spent passion, and recognizably vanquished. Grom watched the prince’s shining hair slip down to hide his face. That was all right; he was being very good now.

Grom grew still, giving the young man a moment, studying his shivering, weary body, and gently patting his bent head. Arthas shifted slightly beneath him and Grom saw him push a little dirt over the telling puddle in the sand.

“It is still there,” Grom pointed out drolly, and the beautifully-muscled, sweaty shoulders drooped in despair. The prince seemed to be typically torn between lust and perceptions of honor. A place, the warchief had noticed, humans seemed to languish excessively.

“Not to worry,” Grom assured him cheerfully. He grasped Arthas’s hips again, thrusting more vigorously, aimed for bliss, reveling in this most pleasurable acquisition. The weary prince grunted softly from the pummeling, but he no longer sought to escape. He had learned his lesson well, it seemed.

Grom could now concentrate entirely upon his own pleasure and satisfaction, and so he did, thoroughly enjoying the silken heat gripping him. It felt as if his poor cock might surely burst with joy.

It was a bit selfish, he knew, but he could not help himself, pressing the prince down onto his forearms, his cheek to the ground. There was no resistance to this demand, and Grom's big hands were most attentive, in response, one stroking the human’s sweat-slick belly and chest, the other moving to urge him pitilessly back to arousal once again. The prince groaned, unable to resist that adept grip upon him. Intensely pleased with his success and his pupil’s complete response, the orc growled and unrelentingly pounded the now-pliant man, momentarily howling the glory of his own release. Exploding most outstandingly within the young man, who then collapsed, as Grom shoved him prone beneath him. They lay there quietly for many moments, gasping in the aftermath.

It had been, Grom concluded, a very fine fucking, indeed.

Arthas did not move, not to shift, mutter or whine. He was silent, accepting. Pleased by this, Grom moved to withdraw from his thoroughly plundered, and undoubtedly aching body. This action garnered a faint grunt of discomfort, but no more. There was only a minimal amount of blood.

Shortly, Grom moved off the motionless man. The chieftain was sleepy now, from his satisfying ride; it was time for a nice nap, but he did not wish to fall asleep with the prince beneath him, for fear of injuring his exhausted spoils of battle. That would not do at all. He lay beside him, in the warm sand; and then, gently drawing the limp body close, he nuzzled the pale hair again, smoothing it with his fingers.

“You have discovered something very important today, haven’t you, little human?” he whispered.

There was a soft, defeated sigh, and Arthas glanced around at the man behind him. Bright amber eyes watched him with cheerful expectation. Arthas blinked. He had just thought of an **_orc_** as a **_man_** _! This was, indeed, a day of revelations…_

“Yes,” the prince relented then, “I am every bit as much a beast as you will ever be.”

“Precisely,” said the chieftain, with a pleased smile. “I would say we _all_ are beasts, at times; and if you can only see that such is not necessarily a _bad_ thing, then you have learned your lesson well.” Arthas groaned, weary and thoroughly confused; he closed his eyes, but not for long. Momentarily, they flew open again, widening, when Grom rumbled in his ear, “The _first_ one, that is… _of_ _many_ …”

　

* * *

 

　

Grom had a strange, disturbing dream during his pleasant nap. And he contemplated it, as he lay, half-awake, beside his sleeping prize.

He pondered the golden youth thoughtfully. It had been of this very prince, _had it not?_ But if so, he was vastly changed. No longer golden, no longer even truly _human._ He was ghostly and vengeful, an evil, driven, deadly force. His hair was longer, whipping about his head in an unrelenting, arctic wind, and those once-gold tresses now bore the same silvery whiteness as the pelting snow and the ice that crackled across his black, demonic armor. All that had been bright and living was gone. His eyes were no longer ocean-colored. _Did he even still have eyes?_ Only a blue, eldritch fire burned there, shedding an icy, soul-chilling mist.

He raised a sword, this cold, kingly creature; and it was a beautiful, but monstrous weapon. It too, was coiled in this same blue smoke, as if rising from some hellish, infernal flame. Smoke that was filled with frightening howlings that might have been the shrieks and bellows of mindless beasts. Yet, it was the pandemonium of a lost, possibly insane, multitude of _voices._ Of every race and every nature, crying out in agonized unison.

The apparition’s terrible eyes considered him, cold, awful, and amused. And when the spectral king spoke, it was not in any way his familiar voice, but rather, one rife with wrath and booming with power.

“I believe I owe you a _fucking_ , Hellscream,” he said with a laugh…

The chieftain sighed, bemused; he yawned, shrugging at his uneasiness. It was meaningless, this dream, in the reality of warm, slanting sunlight. He pondered the young human fondly; he was angelic in his exhausted slumber.

_'Funny things,'_ Grom thought, _'Dreams...'_

　


End file.
